Eleanor sat alone in her study on the third floor of Elm Creek Manor. The unfinished quilt in her lap was too small to warm her, but she scarcely noticed the chill. If she acknowledged a discomfort as trivial as the cold, she would then have to feel all the other pain. Far better to allow her fingers to grow numb in the draft from the open window. Far better for her to grow numb everywhere.
She stroked the quilt, though she barely felt the soft cotton beneath her hands. She should have set it aside, as she had two years earlier when her hopes had last been shattered. This time, although her morning nausea had almost certainly revealed her secret weeks before she and Fred had told the family, she had waited until nearly halfway through her time before taking up the quilt again. Within a month she had quilted nearly every feathered plume, every wreath of elm leaves, every crosshatched heart, every delicate ribbon in the quilt’s pure, unbroken white surface before she lost the child she had so longed to cuddle within its soft embrace.
She would set the quilt aside again, and complete it when she again had reason to do so. If she ever again had reason.
She heard the door open. “I felt a draft all the way down the hall,” said Lucinda. “Why on earth is that window open?”
Because Eleanor longed for some scent of spring on the air to remind her of the promise of life. Because she no longer had any reason to take extra precautions regarding her health. Because she might see Fred, and he always reminded her that although God had denied her a child, he had given her a husband who loved and cherished her. He had brought her into a loving family, and that ought to be enough.
Instead she said, “I wanted some air.”
“Then you should have accepted Fred’s invitation to walk outside with him this morning rather than let all this winter chill into the house.”
“Winter’s over, Aunt Lucinda.”
Lucinda was her father-in-law’s youngest sister, only four years older than Eleanor herself, but the Bergstrom family firmly believed in using the honorific. In the five years she had been married to Fred, Eleanor had grown accustomed to their habits.
“In Pennsylvania, April does not necessarily mean the end of winter.” Lucinda crossed the room and shut the window firmly, then grasped Eleanor’s hands, warming them in her own. “We’ve had snowstorms in April that rival any in the heart of winter.”
“I know. All the more reason to stay indoors.” Eleanor tucked her hands into the folds of the quilt. “You forget how long I’ve lived here.”
“No, you forget.” Lucinda’s voice was gentle, but resolute. “You could not be more a part of this family than if you had been born into it. You do not grieve alone. Don’t shut yourself away up here, away from everyone who loves you.”
Eleanor choked back the threat of tears. “To think, in my parents’ home, I was so eager to turn the nursery into a study. Now I would give anything to turn this study into a nursery.”
“If you mean to stay up here until such a need arises, you will be waiting a very long time. That sofa is much too narrow for both you and Fred.”
Eleanor was so shocked she forgot to stifle a giggle. “Only you would joke at a time like this.”
“It’s a pity more people don’t realize that jokes are most necessary precisely at times like this.” Lucinda took Eleanor’s hands again and pulled her to her feet. Eleanor felt only the slightest dull ache in her abdomen. “Come downstairs and quilt with us. If not for you, then for Clara.”
Eleanor gently folded the little quilt and nodded. For reasons she could only guess, Fred’s seven-year-old sister admired her and imitated her in nearly everything. Eleanor knew that all she did in these dark days would teach Clara how to respond when, inevitably, her own life was touched by sorrow.
She was about to leave the quilt behind when Lucinda said, “Bring it. It’s too beautiful to go unfinished.”
Wordlessly, Eleanor tucked the quilt under her arm and followed Lucinda from the room. Lucinda would not raise her hopes with false promises that someday her quilt would cuddle a little one, and Eleanor found her frankness reassuring in its familiarity. She would take her comfort wherever she could find it, for she now knew that while she had defied her childhood doctors by living far beyond their estimates, their predictions about her ability to withstand the rigors of pregnancy had thus far proven all too true.
Lucinda slowed her steps so Eleanor could easily keep pace with her as they descended the carved oak staircase in the front foyer of the manor. Her home for the past five years was nearly as grand in its own way as anything she had seen in New York, and its pastoral setting and German flavor only enhanced its beauty. It seemed ages ago that she had assumed her Freddy lived on a humble horse farm. Her parents still believed it, based on what Eleanor could interpret from her mother’s brusque responses to the letters Eleanor still dutifully sent them.
They had just reached the bottom of the stairs when Eleanor heard rapid footsteps coming from the west wing. Clara burst into the foyer and dashed across the black marble floor. “Louis went for the mail,” she said, breathless, and to Eleanor, added, “You have two letters. One is from New York and the other’s from France!”
Eleanor would have been delighted to hear of the second letter had the first not filled her with foreboding. The letter from France must be Abigail’s; she and her husband had been touring the Continent for the past month. The letter from New York was equally as certain to be from her mother, and almost as certain not to be a letter at all, but a news clipping—a society page account of a gala event where Edwin Corville and his wife had danced and dined with foreign royalty, a business report of Corville’s lucrative expansion throughout the Eastern seaboard. Mother rarely added anything in her own hand except in spite and unless the article discussed Drury-Lockwood, Incorporated, which was, if Mother’s caustic notes were to be believed, a misnomer.
“We’ll meet you in the west sitting room,” said Lucinda, drawing a disappointed Clara away. The girl had never ventured farther from home than Philadelphia, and she loved to hear stories from far-off places. She seemed to believe Eleanor had visited the locales she had only learned about from books, no matter how often Eleanor told her the truth.
Alone, Eleanor sat down on the bottom step and decided to open her mother’s envelope first, to dispense with whatever insult it contained. Fred said she ought to discard them unopened, but Eleanor could not bear to risk destroying a letter of forgiveness, should it one day come.
She withdrew a newspaper clipping and read only enough of the article to learn that Mr. and Mrs. Edwin Corville had been blessed with a baby boy. Her heart pounded as she read what her mother had appended to the bottom with bold strokes of black ink: “What has your husband given you but shame and grief? What have you given him?”
Eleanor crumpled paper and envelope and, resisting the urge to fling them aside, tucked them into her pocket. She would put them on the fire at the earliest opportunity. She would not have Fred see them for the world.
How foolish she had been to hope that her mother’s anger would lessen with the years. Did she send the same hateful letters to Abigail? Abigail had never mentioned any, but of course, Mother had no need of letters when she could make her anger apparent in person. Abigail had written of at least a dozen society engagements where Mother and Father had departed as soon as she and Mr. Drury arrived. Abigail wrote little more of their parents, even when Eleanor asked for news, filling her letters instead with tales of her life as mistress of the Drury household.
April 2, 1912
Dear Eleanor,
By the time you receive this letter, Herbert and I may be on our way home. Do not worry; my health and that of your niece or nephew is quite good, but my condition is becoming too noticeable for me to enjoy our tour of the Continent much longer. I do not mind cutting our trip short as much as you might think, as I will find much to console me in decorating the nursery.
Paris was beautiful, as lovely as I remembered. I can almost hear you laugh at that, since my last visit occurred in the height of spring, a season that, as I write this, has only just begun to appear. You will say that my view of this romantic city has been colored by my delight in my husband and my anticipation of our child. Well, all I have to say to that is... you are absolutely correct. I find more joy in a sky full of rain now than I ever did on the balmiest summer day before I married. I have no doubt you know exactly what I mean. You are the only person in the world who understands what it was like to live in that cold house. If not for you, I never could have borne it. And this may sound contradictory, but if not for you, I also could not bear being shut out of it forever.
If you had any idea how much I worried about you and ached to hear from you when you left home, you would forgive me every thoughtless thing I ever did to you. I know you have long ago forgiven me for abandoning you when I left home. I suppose that came easily to you, since if I had married Edwin, you probably never would have married Fred! If only Mother and Father would follow your example. Father gets a good living from Herbert. One would think he would be grateful, but of course that is not Father’s way.
Please promise me you will come to see me when the child is born. Five years is too long for sisters to be apart when modern conveniences have made travel so safe and comfortable. Bring Fred if you like; Herbert is fond of him, and I would like to know him better. If you wish to avoid Mother and Father, that is easily done; our parents avoid engagements they suspect I might attend. Will gifts tempt you? If so, know that I have a liberal allowance and spent it freely on the Champs-Elysées. If you want your gifts, I insist that you collect them from me yourself.
I have so much to tell you about our travels that I have no patience to put it into a letter, so you must come to me so I can tell you everything. There is one incident I must share now, however, because it amused and yet so affronted me that I hardly know what to make of it. In Germany we attended a ball to honor a certain count who had been awarded a great honor by the Kaiser—I do not recall the name of either the count or the honor, and I make no apology for my ignorance because both were in German. I do not believe even you comprehend a word of that language, although on second thought, perhaps you have acquired fluency living with Fred’s family.
At this ball, I was introduced to an old dear from a very respected and influential English family, good friends of the Drurys, who told me she was very pleased to see me again. I knew we had never met, but rather than offend her by saying so, I merely smiled and steered the conversation elsewhere. She spoke to me quite kindly whenever our paths crossed that evening, and when Herbert and I were about to depart, she clasped my hand and said, “I was so sorry to hear your mother passed. I was very fond of her.”
You can imagine my shock upon discovering in this manner that our mother had perished—and now I realize that I may have given you that same fright! Eleanor, dear, our own mother is alive if not well; the “mother” the Englishwoman mourned was Herbert’s first wife. The dear lady thought I was his daughter! I wanted to laugh although I was mortified, for my condition was apparent then if not so obvious as now, and since she did not know Herbert was my husband, she must have wondered if I had one at all! Still, her remark was innocent and not offensive, unlike those of many Americans we have encountered in our travels, who seem to find my condition scandalous even when they know full well Herbert and I are man and wife.
How much more I would enjoy confiding these secrets to you in person than through the post. Do promise you will come and see me when the baby’s arrival is imminent. If gifts will not tempt you, then perhaps you will think instead of what a coward I am and how I dread the travail that awaits. If you could be by my side, lending me your strength as you always have, I think I shall be able to endure it. You may think me cruel to play to your sympathetic heart so, but if guilt shall speed you to my side, then I must be cruel!
I am not accustomed to writing such long letters, and my hand has grown weary, so I must close. Tomorrow we are off to England, where I shall be certain to collect a vial of earth from the home of Jane Austen, as you requested. You do ask for such silly things. I think I shall buy you a tea service as well, though you did not ask for it. You will never see it, of course, unless you return to New York. Please do ask Fred if you might come.
So tomorrow to England, and after a week, from Southampton to home. Would you be so kind to have a letter waiting there for
Your Loving Sister,
Abigail
Eleanor smiled as she returned the letter to its envelope, warmed by Abigail’s happiness but well aware of how it cast her own sorrow into greater relief. She wished she could unburden herself to her sister, but Abigail had scolded her after she lost the first two babies and would certainly be even more vehement if she learned Eleanor had not abandoned her hopes for a child. In Abigail’s opinion, Eleanor knew the doctors’ warnings and ought to heed them. “If Fred loves you as much as you say,” she had written, “I cannot believe he would demand a child of you if it might cost you your life.”
Eleanor had hastened to assure her that Fred had never made any such demand, but the news of her first pregnancy had so delighted him that she knew he longed for a child as much as she did. He had responded to her subsequent pregnancies with guarded optimism and comforted her tenderly when they ended in grief. This time, however, he had also gently suggested that they resign themselves to their childless state rather than risk her health again.
She wondered if she could ever resign herself. She longed for a sympathetic friend in whom she could confide, someone who might advise her. She would have turned to Miss Langley, but her former nanny agreed with Abigail regarding Eleanor’s yearning for a child. Moreover, she was not especially receptive to any talk of Fred, since although she approved of Eleanor’s decision to flee her parents’ home, she could not hide her disappointment that Eleanor had married instead of pursuing her education. The only other women Eleanor knew well enough to confide in were members of Fred’s family, and somehow, even sharing her worries with Lucinda seemed a breach of his confidence.
She gathered up the unfinished quilt, slipped Abigail’s letter into her pocket, and tried to close off her grief in a distant corner of her mind as she went to join Lucinda and the others. She passed through the kitchen on her way to the west sitting room, and Mother’s news clipping quickly turned to ash on the fire.
Fred’s mother, Elizabeth, looked up and smiled encouragingly as Eleanor took her usual chair by the window. Maude and Lily broke off their conversation and studied their needlework intently, giving Eleanor only quick nods of welcome. In a surge of bitterness, Eleanor wondered if her sisters-in-law feared they might suffer her same unhappy fate if they acknowledged it. Even Elizabeth, the most superstitious woman Eleanor had ever met, did not believe that.
Clara left her mother’s side and seated herself on Eleanor’s footstool. “Would you like me to thread a needle for you?”
Eleanor smiled and thanked her. She let Clara borrow the heron-shaped shears Miss Langley had given her and slipped her thimble on her finger.
“I’m pleased you’re going to finish your quilt,” said Maude. She had married the second eldest of the Bergstrom sons, Louis, the previous spring, and with her first anniversary approaching, she had decided to learn to quilt to make an anniversary gift for her husband. Elizabeth had encouraged her to choose a simple Nine-Patch, but after seeing a picture in the Ladies’ Home Journal, Maude had fallen in love with a stunning appliquéd Sunflower quilt designed by renowned quilter Marie Webster. Privately, the other women of the family agreed she would be lucky to finish even a small fraction of it in time, but no one wanted to discourage her newfound interest in their beloved craft, and since Maude did not want to settle for a simpler block, they decided to let her go her own way.
“Perhaps she will learn better, learning from her mistakes,” Elizabeth had said with a sigh.
“Perhaps,” Lucinda had agreed, “and perhaps this quilt will be a gift for their tenth anniversary instead of their first.”
Eleanor had joined in the laughter. It had been so much easier to laugh then, when she had just begun to feel life stirring within her womb and every stitch she put into the soft, white whole cloth quilt was another prayer for the health and safety of the precious child she carried.
Eleanor gazed at the quilt. “I don’t like to leave work unfinished.” In a flash of inspiration, she added, “I’ve decided to give this to my sister when her child is born.”
“You can’t do that,” said Lily in dismay. “You’ve worked so hard on it, and you’re going to need it yourself someday.”
Eleanor smiled fondly at her sister-in-law, her earlier bitterness forgotten. Lily’s characteristic optimism was as welcome as Lucinda’s frankness. “Perhaps I will,” she said, “but my sister has such a good head start that her child will definitely be born first, and I have no quilt for him. Or her. The only other quilt I have under way is the Turkey Tracks—”
“Absolutely not,” said Elizabeth, not even looking up from her work. “Under no circumstances should a child be given a Wandering Foot quilt.”
Lucinda caught Eleanor’s eye and grinned. “She said Turkey Tracks, not Wandering Foot.”
“You know very well that they are one and the same.” Elizabeth looked up from her work and realized they were teasing her. “Suit yourselves, then,” she said, shrugging. “If you want to condemn a poor innocent child to a lifetime of restlessness and wandering, then I can’t stop you.”
“Quilt or no quilt, I would not be surprised if the child has a bit of wanderlust,” said Lucinda. “It seems to run in the family.”
The other women laughed, and even Eleanor managed a smile.
Later that evening, after she prepared for bed, she read Abigail’s letter again, hungry for news of their parents. Mother was alive if not well, Abigail had written, but Eleanor had read enough similarly derisive comments to know that the remark pertained to Abigail’s general opinion of their mother and not to her current health. She was not surprised to hear that their parents still avoided Abigail in society, or that Abigail still seemed genuinely astonished that their parents did not appreciate how she had resolved their financial difficulties. Within months of marrying Abigail and the dissolution of any possible agreement with the Corvilles, Mr. Drury had purchased Lockwood’s and had assumed responsibility for Father’s debts. He had made Father a vice president, and in an overture of reconciliation that Eleanor had found remarkable at the time, he had kept the Lockwood name in the title of the new company. Since then, as she pieced together the scraps of information her sister let fall, Eleanor had come to believe that Mr. Drury’s ostensible generosity had masked one last stab of revenge against his former rival. As best as Eleanor had been able to determine, Father had been given very little work to do, and although he received an impressive salary, he had no influence whatsoever. Sometimes Eleanor wondered if Father would have preferred to go into bankruptcy with his pride intact, but she knew her mother never would have allowed it. It was bad enough that their position in society had been irreparably damaged by the scandal; they should not also have to endure financial ruin.
Eleanor had pen and paper in the nightstand; she could write to Abigail and ask outright how their parents fared, and satisfy both her curiosity and Abigail’s request for a letter at the same time. She would have, except she knew Abigail would ignore her questions or respond so breezily that she might as well not have bothered.
She climbed into bed and blew out the lamp, pulling the Rocky Mountain quilt over her. She and Fred had slept beneath it every night of their marriage, even when it was not yet complete. Lately she had fallen asleep beneath it alone more often than not.
She was not sure how many hours later Fred inadvertently woke her as he pulled back the covers. When she stirred, he kissed her and murmured an apology. “It’s all right,” she said as he lay down beside her at last. “I’m glad you woke me. I haven’t seen you all day, except at supper.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been busy.”
“Doing what?”
“You could come outside and see for yourself tomorrow.”
“Or you could simply tell me, if you weren’t so stubborn.”
“Oh. So I’m the stubborn one.” He kissed her gently and shifted onto his back, settling against the pillow. He let out a long sigh.
Eleanor knew he was exhausted, but she could not let go just yet. “I heard from my sister today.”
“Is she well?”
“She is. She and Herbert are returning from Europe soon.” She steeled herself. “She wants me to come when her child is born. I thought I might go. If I can be spared.”
She did not mean if Bergstrom Thoroughbreds could do without her. Although everyone was expected to contribute to the family business, the others would divide up her work so that her absence would be little noticed. She meant if Fred could spare her, if the man who had sworn never to leave her side would willingly or eagerly let her go so far away.
“That would be in the middle of August?”
“Unless the child is early. I thought I should be prepared to leave at the beginning of the month, if necessary.”
“That’s not a good time for me to be away.”
“Well, no,” said Eleanor, surprised. “I assumed I would go alone. Perhaps Clara could accompany me.”
“My sister’s a level-headed girl, but she’s still just a child,” said Fred. “I was thinking of someone who might look after you.”
“I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”
“I know you are,” he said quickly. “Well, Clara would be thrilled, and she’s a good helper. How long will you be gone?”
She had not decided. “A month, perhaps more.”
“That long?” He drew her into his arms. “Maybe I can get away for a few days and visit you in New York.”
“That would be nice.”
“We could see your parents, if you like.”
“I don’t think we would be welcome.”
“Would they turn us away at the door?”
“I doubt they would even let us pass through the front gates.”
He stroked her hair and held her close. “Then we’ll leave them alone.”
Clara was as thrilled by the upcoming trip to New York as Fred had predicted, and Elizabeth readily granted her permission to accompany Eleanor. The women of the family agreed that at such a time as Abigail would soon face, no woman fortunate enough to have a sister wanted to be without her. “Or without her mother,” added Lily, and blushed, remembering too late the state of affairs among the Lockwood women.
“I cannot imagine my mother would be much comfort,” said Eleanor, smiling to show Lily she had not taken offense.
“Then you must go, as much as we will miss you,” said Elizabeth. “Have you ever assisted in childbirth?”
“No, but fortunately Abigail won’t need to rely entirely upon me,” said Eleanor with a laugh. “A doctor and at least one nurse will be present. I don’t plan to do anything more than comfort my sister and be one of the first to cuddle the newborn.”
“Even the best doctors sometimes overlook important remedies,” said Elizabeth. “Or rather, they dismiss them as silly folk tales. If you do arrive in time for the delivery, remember to place a knife beneath your sister’s bed. That will cut the pain.”
“Cut the pain?”
“Will any sort of knife do, or does it have to be a special knife?” inquired Lucinda. “What would happen if you used a spoon instead?”
“Tease me if you must,” retorted Elizabeth, “but there was a knife beneath my bed for every child I bore except for Louis, and his birth was by far the longest and most painful.”
“Of course it was,” said Maude. “He was nearly ten pounds.”
“He’s your husband, so your children will probably be large, too. You’ll be begging for a knife then, and it would serve you right if I made you do without.”
“I’ll put a knife under your bed for you, Maude,” said Clara loyally, but after glancing at Eleanor, added, “Maybe it doesn’t help, but it couldn’t hurt, either.”
Clara spent the next several days in the library, reading everything she could find about New York City. Within a day she had composed an impressive list of all the sights she wished to see, and Eleanor was pleased to discover that many of her favorite museums and landmarks were included.
“We’ll have plenty of time for sightseeing,” Eleanor promised one evening later that week as the women of the family gathered in the west sitting room for a last bit of quilting before bed. “Unless I can’t finish this quilt in time and have to sneak away to complete it while Abigail tends to the baby.”
“A whole cloth quilt is the perfect choice for a baby’s first quilt,” said Elizabeth. “Its unbroken surface suggests purity and innocence. Whole cloth quilts are well suited for newborns and for brides.”
“What does it matter, as long as the quilt is pretty?” asked Lily.
“It matters a great deal,” said Elizabeth. “Think of the symbolism, the omens in a quilt. What would you think if a bride pieced her wedding quilt in the Contrary Wife or Crazy House or Devil’s Claws pattern? It would be far better for her to choose something like Steps to the Altar or True Lover’s Knot.”
“You’re absolutely right,” said Lucinda.
Elizabeth regarded her with surprise. “Why, this is a novelty. You agree with me?”
“Of course,” said Lucinda. “Can you imagine, for example, if a bride chose Tumbling Blocks? That pattern is also called Baby Blocks, and everyone would gossip about why she had to get married.”
“Lucinda,” said Elizabeth over the others’ laughter, “if you weren’t my dear husband’s baby sister, I would give you the scolding you deserve.”
“Don’t let that stop you.” Lucinda shrugged. “What do I care what pattern a bride chooses for her wedding quilt, so long as it isn’t yet another floral appliqué with bows and birds and butterflies and—oops. Sorry, Maude.”
“This isn’t my wedding quilt,” said Maude primly, struggling to put a sharp point on the petal of another Sunflower block. “And while I might add a few butterflies if I am so inclined, you won’t find any birds or bows here. Not that I’d let you influence me. If it’s good enough for the Ladies’ Home Journal, then it’s good enough for me, and it would be good enough for you, too, if you weren’t so prideful.”
“Who’s prideful?” protested Lucinda. “I like the Ladies’ Home Journal. I like it even more now that they’re going to publish Eleanor’s whole cloth quilt pattern.”
“What?” exclaimed Eleanor.
“Now look what you made me do,” Lucinda complained to Maude. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”
“It is a surprise,” said Eleanor. “Believe me, it is.”
Maude shook her head. “This must be another one of Lucinda’s jokes.”
“Not at all,” said Lucinda. “I thought we could all use a bit of cheering up around here, so I copied Eleanor’s pattern and sent it to the editor. It’s such a beautiful, original design, so I thought, why not share it with the world?” She smiled kindly at Eleanor. “I didn’t know if you would have the heart to finish your own quilt, and it seemed a shame not to have someone, somewhere completing it.”
Eleanor reached out and clasped her hand. “That was thoughtful of you.”
“Not really. I just wanted to brag about my famous niece.”
Clara said, “Eleanor’s going to be famous?”
“Of course,” said Lucinda. “This is the Ladies’ Home Journal, after all. Eleanor’s name will be right up there at the top of the page with the picture of her quilt, just like Marie Webster and that Sunflower quilt Maude is making.”
“Will her picture be there, too?”
“I don’t think I want my picture in a magazine,” said Eleanor, a nervous quake in her stomach. “Or even my name.”
“Why not?” asked Clara.
Eleanor forced a laugh. “I suppose so no one will know where to send their criticism. Can’t they show my quilt without mentioning me?”
She regretted her words when she saw the disappointment in their faces. “I suppose I should have asked your permission first,” said Lucinda. “But I’m sure they would let you use merely your initials, or a pseudonym, if you prefer.”
“Aren’t you proud of your quilt?” asked Clara. “I think you should be.”
“I am proud of it,” said Eleanor. “And I’m very grateful that Lucinda thought enough of my quilt to send it to the magazine. And I’m thrilled that it’s going to be published. However, I would prefer to be all those things and anonymous, too.”
She saw from the looks they exchanged that they did not understand, but they let her be. Elizabeth would think her too modest; Maude would think it false modesty and another sign of her pride. Lucinda and Lily would respect her decision, but they would wonder why she had made it. Dear, insightful Clara would probably figure out the reason before anyone else, perhaps before Eleanor herself.
She wondered what Fred would think.
Fred worked through supper and missed Lucinda’s announcement to the rest of the family. The other men congratulated Eleanor and agreed that publication in a national magazine was quite an accomplishment, although her father-in-law looked bemused and remarked that he thought quilters did not like others to duplicate their unique designs. “My mother, especially, was adamant about not copying other women’s quilts,” said David. “Though I remember my Aunt Gerda once whispered to me that my mother had done her fair share of copying when she was a new quilter.”
“Everyone learns to quilt by copying other quilters’ patterns,” said Lily. “Just like painters learn by studying the old masters.”
Louis and William guffawed at the comparison, earning themselves frowns from the quilters at the table. Those for William were milder because he was only a few years older than Clara; Louis, however, knew better, as his wife’s steely glare made clear. Eleanor hid a smile and wondered if Maude would now consider adding a few Contrary Wife blocks to her Sunflower quilt.
“Perhaps copying another quilter’s work without permission is wrong,” said Eleanor, “but duplicating her quilt with her consent is another matter entirely. I wouldn’t allow my quilt to appear in a magazine if I didn’t want other quilters to make it.”
In fact, now that the shock of Lucinda’s surprise had passed, she was becoming more excited about the thought of opening a magazine and seeing a picture of her quilt inside. She knew, too, that Abigail would be all the more thrilled by the gift, knowing that her baby’s quilt had been featured in a national magazine. Eleanor’s desire for anonymity would be thwarted in New York, at least, for Abigail was certain to tell everyone she knew.
For a very brief moment, she considered sending her mother a clipping with a note pointing out that none of Mrs. Edwin Corville’s quilts had ever received such an honor, but given her mother’s distaste for quilting, that would only prove how low Eleanor had fallen.
After supper, she finished quilting the whole cloth quilt and trimmed the batting and lining even with the scalloped edges of the top. For the binding, she cut a long, narrow strip of fabric along the bias rather than the straight of the grain so that the binding would ease along the curves and miters of the fancy edge. Fred came in as she was pinning the binding in place, hair windblown, hands dirty from working outdoors, but he had only stopped by to say hello, so there was no time to tell him her good news. He kissed her on the cheek and told her he wouldn’t be late, then left the room as quickly as he had entered.
Later that night, Fred roused Eleanor just moments after she doused the lamp. “Come with me,” he said. “It’s done. Let me show you.”
“Show me what?” she asked. “A new fence? That addition to the stable you and your brothers are always talking about?”
“No, something much better.” He pulled back the quilt and took her hands. “At least I hope you’ll think so.”
Curious, she climbed out of bed and dressed for the chilly spring night. Quietly, Fred led her into the hallway past his siblings’ rooms, and as they descended the stairs, Eleanor was struck by a sudden remembrance of another night five years earlier and another flight of stairs she had stolen down in the darkness. Eleanor wondered if Fred ever thought of that night and wished her family had awakened and prevented her from leaving with him. She did not doubt his love for her, but he would have had children if he had married any other woman.
He led her across the foyer, into the west wing of the manor, and paused at the west door. This had once been the front entrance of the Bergstrom home, before Fred’s father had added the grand south wing with its banquet hall and ballroom. Fred took both of her hands in his and watched her expectantly. “Are you ready?”
“Of course,” she said, but as he opened the door, she dug in her heels. “Fred, no. It’s so late. It’s too dark and cold now. You can show me in the morning.”
“Eleanor.” His voice was gentle, but commanding. “You’re coming outside.”
With no other choice, she took a deep breath and stepped outside—but instead of bare earth, her foot struck smooth stone. A patio of gray stones nearly identical to those forming the walls of the manor lay where rocky soil and sparse clumps of grass had been only weeks before. Surrounding the expanse of stone were tall bushes and evergreens, enclosing the intimate space completely except for one opening through which Eleanor spied the beginning of a stone trail winding north.
“That path leads to the gazebo in the gardens, and to the stables beyond them,” said Fred. “The lilac bushes don’t look like much now, but when they flower in the spring, this place will be so pretty—you’ll see. We’ll have flowers before then, though.” He gestured to the freshly turned earth lining the patio. “Those are dahlias and irises, and these over here are gladiolus. They’ll come up before September.”
“I love lilacs,” she said, slowly turning and taking in the patio. It felt enclosed, sheltered. Safe. “Dahlias, too.”
“Look over here.” He knelt and pointed to the northeast corner of the manor. “That’s the cornerstone of Elm Creek Manor. The entire estate was founded on this very spot.”
“‘Bergstrom 1858,” Eleanor read aloud, and as Fred continued to describe the features of the garden he had created just for her, Eleanor could picture in her mind’s eye how lovely it would be in midsummer when the bulbs bloomed, and how the evergreens would bring a spot of color to the landscape even in the depths of winter. A year hence, the lilacs would fill the air with their fragrance.
“I’ll make some chairs next,” said Fred. “I also thought about putting some benches along the two sides, or maybe along the house. What do you think?”
“Why, Fred?”
He pretended not to understand. “So we can have some place to sit.”
“No, Fred. Why? Why did you do all this—for me?”
“Because I love you, and I can’t stand to see you making the house into your prison. I would make you a thousand gardens if that’s what it took to get you to come outside again.”
She stared at him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you? Eleanor, you haven’t set foot beyond the foyer since the day we lost the baby. You’ve wondered why I wouldn’t tell you what I was working on all this time. I had hoped your curiosity would compel you outside. Two months ago, you never would have watched from the windows instead of coming out to see what I was doing.”
“I’ve been tired.” Her voice shook, and she turned away from him. “I’m still recuperating.”
“I’m not asking you to work with the horses yet, just to leave the house for a while.” He spun her around to face him. “Eleanor, it’s not your fault. You heard what the doctor said. You didn’t do anything to harm the baby.”
“But I did. I did. I should have rested, I should have taken care of myself—”
“You took excellent care of yourself.”
“No. No. I didn’t. I came outside, I took walks, all for selfish reasons. I wanted to see the new colts, or I wanted to play in the snow with Clara... I should have stayed inside, in bed or by the fire—”
“Nothing you did hurt the baby. My own mother rode horseback and worked the farm when she—”
“But your mother had never lost a child. I had, so I should have known better. After I lost our first two babies, I should have done everything—everything—to make sure I didn’t fail you again.”
“My God, Eleanor, you didn’t fail me.” He reached out for her, but she avoided his embrace. “You nearly died. Do you think I could ever be angry with you after that? Do you think I care more about being a father than about spending the rest of my life with you?”
“I’m so sorry, Fred.”
“Listen to me. You didn’t do anything wrong. Maybe we aren’t meant to have children. If that’s true, we still have each other, and that’s all I ever wanted.”
“Fred.” She steeled herself. “I told you before we married that I did not think I could bear children. You said it didn’t matter, but it does. If you want to divorce me—”
“Never.” For the first time, she heard a trace of anger in his voice. “Don’t ever say that again. Did you marry me only to become a mother?”
“I—” No. She had thought only of him, of choosing her fate instead of letting her parents and Edwin Corville determine it for her. But the assumption that she could not have children mattered less to her as a girl of seventeen than it did now that she had built a life with the man she loved. “I married you because I loved you.”
“The reasons we married are reasons to stay married. Please don’t ever suggest we divorce unless it’s what you truly want.”
“It will never be what I want.”
She buried her face in his chest and wept as she had not when she lost the last baby, for she had been too stunned for tears, too unable to comprehend that God could visit this same terrible grief upon her a third time.
Fred held her and murmured words of comfort, but his voice trembled, and she knew he also wept.
“Life goes on, Eleanor,” he said. “I know it sounds trite, but it’s true. Life goes on not only for us, but for our family.”
She nodded. A faint hope kindled in her heart. Life went on— Fred’s siblings would have children. Abigail’s child would enter the world by late summer. Life would go on, and she and Fred would be a part of those lives.
“We’ve already been through the most difficult, most painful times we will ever face,” he said. “From this point forward, we don’t have to fear anything, because we’ve already survived the worst.”
“I hope you’re right.” She prayed he was right.
Less than a week later, she sat on the smooth stone of the cornerstone patio enjoying the first truly warm, sunny day of that rainy spring. She sat with the women of her family chatting and planning for the summer, for the summer and beyond. She put the last stitch into the binding of the whole cloth quilt and held it up for the others to admire. They praised her, and Eleanor felt warmth returning to her heart as she imagined cradling her little niece or nephew within its soft folds.
Clara sat by her side, working on her most difficult quilt yet, and Eleanor was so engrossed in helping her with the appliqué and answering her questions about New York that a few moments passed before she realized that the others had fallen silent. She looked up to discover Louis whispering into his mother’s ear; Elizabeth suddenly went pale, and her hand went to her throat.
“What is it?” asked Lucinda as Louis raced off down the stone path toward the stables.
Elizabeth pressed her lips together tightly and fumbled for her handkerchief, lowering her head so none of them could meet her gaze. Louis rode into town each day for the mail and the papers; he must have brought home terrible news. Clara’s face was full of worry. Eleanor stroked her hair reassuringly and tried to resume their conversation, but Clara was too distracted to respond.
Eleanor grew faint when, barely minutes later, Louis returned with Fred. Both men’s faces were grave, but behind Fred’s eyes she saw a pain she had not seen since her last baby died.
“What is it?” she tried to ask, but the words dried up in her throat.
“Eleanor.” Fred knelt beside her and took her hands in his. They felt almost unbearably warm against the ice of her skin. “Your sister sailed from Southampton on the tenth, isn’t that right?”
“Yes.” She looked from him to Louis and back. “They’re probably still at sea. Why?”
“Do you remember the name of her ship?”
“I—I don’t recall. I would have to check her letters. Why? What has happened?”
“Two nights ago, a ship sailing from Southampton to New York struck an iceberg and sank in the North Atlantic. Only a few hundred souls were spared.”
“No. No.” She shook her head. “That could not be Abigail’s ship. She wrote me—Herbert told her it was a marvel of engineering. It was designed to be unsinkable. It could not be Abigail’s ship. Mother would have sent a telegram.” Despite their estrangement, Mother would have sent word, Eleanor repeated silently to herself, though she knew such things took time, and if the accident had only just happened, there would be passenger lists to be sorted out, next of kin to notify— Abigail. Abigail and her baby.
“Eleanor.” Fred’s voice called to her, quietly insistent. “Was her ship called the Titanic?”
“I don’t remember.” She did not want to remember. She could not believe it; she would not believe it. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes to clear her head of dizziness. It swept over her, crowding out her resolve to forget the name of her sister’s ship for as long as possible, and in the space between breaths she went from believing that Abigail’s ship was not the one that sank to praying that Abigail had been among the handful of survivors. Women and children were always the first into the lifeboats; surely a woman in Abigail’s condition would have been among the very first even of these. Surely Mr. Drury, with his wealth and influence, would have seen to Abigail’s safety.
In the days and weeks that followed, Eleanor would read reports of women who refused seats in half-filled lifeboats rather than leave their husbands behind. She would hear rumors that near the end, survivors had witnessed a beautiful, golden-haired woman sitting on the first-class deck, staring out at the sea with unseeing eyes, one hand absently stroking her swelling abdomen, her husband weeping on her shoulder.
Eleanor prayed for a miracle she knew would not be granted.
The family gathered in the parlor on the day the passenger manifest they had requested finally arrived. With it was the list of survivors. Abigail and her husband were not among them.
“Why did she not leave when she had the chance?” said Eleanor. Fred’s arm was around her, sustaining her; the whole cloth quilt lay upon her lap. She had scarcely let it from her grasp since first learning of the disaster. The papers from the White Star Line lay on the floor where they had slipped from her fingers.
“Her love for her husband was too great,” said Lily in a soft voice. “She could not bear to be parted from him.”
“Not even for their child?” Eleanor could not believe it of Abigail; she could not bear to believe it. Perhaps Abigail refused to take her place in the lifeboat because she did not fully comprehend the danger. Perhaps she thought her child more at risk on the open sea. Perhaps by the time she understood, it was too late. “I know my sister,” said Eleanor firmly, though her voice trembled. Instinctively, she clutched the quilt to her chest. “She would not have chosen death with her husband over her child’s life. Never.”
“Will you let go of that thing?” shrilled Elizabeth. Before Eleanor could react, Elizabeth had crossed the room and snatched the quilt away. “I will throw this wretched thing on the fire. You should have destroyed it after you lost the first baby.”
“Give that back to me.”
“I won’t. Don’t you see? Every baby you intend it for has died. It’s bad luck.”
“Mother,” said Fred, rising, “this quilt had nothing to do with any of these tragedies.”
“Elizabeth, you don’t know what you’re saying.” David’s voice was calm, but firm, as he addressed his wife. “Return the quilt to Eleanor at once.”
Elizabeth clenched her teeth against a low moan, but she did not struggle as Fred and David pried the quilt from her white-knuckled grasp. Eleanor examined the quilt for rents and folded it with shaking hands. Her heart pounded, and a sudden flash of pain left her breathless.
“Destroy it or I will,” Elizabeth choked out. “I swear to you, no grandchild of mine will ever sleep beneath that quilt.”
“Be quiet, Elizabeth,” commanded Lucinda. To Eleanor, she murmured, “Get the quilt out of her sight until she comes to her senses.”
Eleanor nodded and fled upstairs to her bedroom to hide the quilt, knowing the light of day would not shine on it while Elizabeth lived. The risk that she would destroy Eleanor’s only remembrance of Abigail’s child was too great. Her heart ached as she buried the quilt at the bottom of her cedar chest, blinded by tears. Oh, Abigail. How could she have spurned the lifeboats, knowing that her death meant the death of her child?
The pounding ache in her heart subsided, and a fire kindled within Eleanor as she locked the trunk and wiped her eyes, her resolution stronger even than that which had compelled her to leave her parents’ home forever. She would have a child, and she would live for that child. And Abigail’s name would not be forgotten.
No telegram from her parents ever came.